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Zolton Does Amazon: Nearly Naughty, Not So Nice

I originally wrote this piece for MediaShower.com, for use on the late, great comedy site ZuG.com. Text and images published here with permission.

This Christmas, I wanted to get my wife the perfect present, for once. She patiently suffers the burden of unwrapping discount shoe inserts and slightly-used crock pots and off-brand cosmetic products — but I know she doesn’t really like them. I don’t think she even tried the “CaverGirl” mascara I stuffed in her stocking last year. I thought the Neanderthal look was “in” last winter. Shows what I know.

So I threw myself on the mercy of the missus. Just tell me what you want for Christmas, I said. Anything at all. It’s yours.

She just smiled, and with a tear in her eye said it was the sweetest gesture I’d ever made. And all she wanted for Christmas now was a little “alone time” with me over the holidays.

I told her she’d have to be more specific. She said she wanted to “get hot and heavy” under the mistletoe. I still didn’t get it. Turn up the thermostat and gorge on gingerbread cookies in the doorway?

In my defense, we’ve been married a long time. A very long time.

Finally, she made me a list to support our seasonal snugglebuggling. I picked up everything she asked for — on Amazon.com, naturally — to surprise her with an early Christmas celebration. But apparently, I lost something in the translation. Maybe you can sort it out from my actual Amazon reviews of the products I bought, because I’m totally in the dark over here.

Also, in the cold. She says I’m sleeping on the couch, at least until Easter. And she burned all the mistletoe. And the shoe inserts I gave her for Valentine’s. Humbug!

The missus suggested she’d enjoy a nice, long soothing massage. So I stocked up on this jumbo-sized tub of massage oil. It comes unscented and I didn’t have anything fragrant to mix with it, so I took it into the kitchen and pan-fried a few chicken wings in the oil — to give it that sexy “cooked-in” aroma.

We settled in for her massage in the bedroom. But my hands were already greasy from the wings, and I fumbled the bottle trying to get the cap off. I soaked my wife, the mattress, and both our pillows with a full gallon of chicken-fried massage oil. My wife was none too happy about that. And didn’t seem “in the mood” for a massage afterward, either.

Oh, mama. I’d like to rub my thirteen herbs and spices into THAT.

Now every time I go into the bedroom, I have a sudden craving for KFC. I don’t know if that’s “soothing,” exactly, but it sure feels aroungry to me.

One of my wife’s requests was that we “rekindle our passion” this holiday season. Great! I found this fifty pound box of rekindling sticks — that’d be enough to light up a whole dorm’s worth of passion-starved randy freshmen.

After she opened it, she told me that I had it all wrong, and I never understand, and I was a big insensitive doofus. Then she stormed into the bedroom, threw my pillow out, and slammed the door. So much for “passion,” I guess.

Why, I haven’t had this much wood in my mouth since the Great Ticonderoga Swallow of 1994!

On the bright side, this kindling works wonders in the living room fireplace. It’s great for starting fires of all sizes, and just a few sticks will keep one burning all night long. Which is good — because it gets mighty cold sleeping alone on the couch.

One thing my wife mentioned was that she was really looking forward to being “pleasured.” I didn’t want to disappoint — ’tis the season, as they say — so I figured I’d get a few pointers on the, shall we say, “best practices” for that sort of thing. I never claimed to be proud. I’ll take all the help I can get.

So I picked up this book, looking for some new techniques. That’s not quite what I found, exactly — what with this book being more about the psychology of perception and enjoyment and less about … other things. But I figured at least if I read it aloud when my wife was interested in “pleasure” that we both might learn something.

“Well, they sure ain’t never done it that way in them boobie films over on the Cinemax!

We did. She learned never to send me to Amazon for a reference guide. And I learned that if she wants to kick me violently backward out of bed for reading at inappropriate times, I’m probably not going to see it coming. Highly instructive experience. A++.

Above all, my missus wrote, she really just wanted to “snuggle.” Unfortunately, I can’t read her chicken-scratch handwriting very well, so I bought her this “snuggie” instead. I especially couldn’t figure out why she wanted to snuggie “in private all night long!”, but I tried to respect the letter of her request. So I locked her in the bedroom with the snuggie all night, and gave her all the privacy she needed. I was just trying to help.

She was pretty mad when she came out. But we finally sorted the whole situation out, and had a nice laugh about it. Insofar as a guy hogtied and gagged with a fleece sleeved blanket can “laugh.” Mostly, it was moaning. Little bit of choking.

Next year, remind me to misinterpret her Christmas wish list into something flimsier. These Snuggies are way too hard to wriggle out of — at least when tied in knots by a woman scorned. Aptly named.

She says she already knows what I’m getting her next year. Whatever could it be?